


In Which Sexual Identity Politics Are Improved by Constant Expletives

by Villainyandgoodcheekbones



Series: The Hell-Raising Chronicles of the Trenchcoat Brigade [6]
Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Bahorel is seriously about to punch a bitch for social justice, Les Mis AU, M/M, Trenchcoat Brigade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:32:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Villainyandgoodcheekbones/pseuds/Villainyandgoodcheekbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A relationship is negotiated, a wicked burn is laid down, and sexual identity politics are vastly improved by the use of constant expletives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Sexual Identity Politics Are Improved by Constant Expletives

Grantaire either knows how to pick locks, or Feuilly’s hallucinating, because he _swears_ the door was locked. But Grantaire sidles in anyway, and hops up on a counter and says “Where’d your boyfriend go? I’m stealing him for an hour of vaguely homoerotic punching and pinning of limbs to various flat surfaces.” He pauses, then adds “You’re not gonna get jealous and murder me with a palette knife, are you?”

And Feuilly says, automatically “Not my boyfriend.”

And Grantaire says “Not fooling anyone.”

And Bahorel wanders out of the bathroom, his wife beater practically spray-painted onto his chest and wearing his stupid fucking beanie ( _Waldo hat, you freckled fuckface, it’s a Waldo hat)_ and says “Not that I have any idea what you’re talking about, but if I don’t get to hit something in the next five minutes, somebody’s fucking nose will pay the price.”

And Feuilly’s not jealous when they leave, because Bahorel’s not his boyfriend. He’s just a guy that Feuilly lives with. And shares a mattress with. And has sporadic ( _really good_ , a traitorous part of his mind whispers, _really really fucking good)_ sex with. Not his boyfriend at all. He goes back to sketching, because he has a project due Tuesday and a nine-hour shift the night before, and burns through an entire pack of cigarettes  before Bahorel gets back. Then he burns through another half-pack because they’re watching Game of Thrones, Bahorel sprawling all over the couch with Feuilly’s head on top of his hip and the Battle of Blackwater is fucking _stressful_. But they’re not boyfriends. It’s really not a problem.

It becomes a problem when it’s Wednesday and Feuilly has nothing left to smoke and his paycheck isn’t due for another week. It’s a meeting night, and everybody’s at the Musain. Feuilly leans over Bahorel’s shoulder, and honestly, the only thing he’s planning to do is bum a smoke off him. Instead, Bahorel reaches up, his hand heavy and warm across the back of Feuilly’s neck. He pulls Feuilly’s head down and twists his own up to meet it, blowing a plume of smoke into Feuilly’s open mouth as Feuilly starts to call him an “assh–”

But the word never comes out. He doesn’t mean to, but his eyes flutter shut and Feuilly lets out a contented mew.

There’s a guy sitting across from Bahorel, not one of their friends, not a member, just someone that Bahorel knows from somewhere, and he coughs, a little uncomfortably. “So, are you guys…” Bahorel has a truly impressive deadpan.  His hand is still on Feuilly’s neck. Someone-from-Somewhere shifts in his chair “Are you, like, gay, or–” Bahorel wordlessly hands his cigarette up to Feuilly, leans forwards across the table and says:

“The fuck do you care? Furthermore,” he says. People forget sometimes (most of the time) that Bahorel _is_ actually a law student. Who, despite _never fucking going to class_ , hasn’t failed or dropped out. He’s smarter than he looks. “Furthermore, I reject your fucking hetero-normative, binary conceptualization of human sexuality, which is grossly and unnecessarily constraining, and instead offer ‘fuck you, I happen to like this gingery motherfucker, he’s pretty fucking awesome, and I’ll sleep whoever the fuck I damn well please.”

There’s really not a lot you can say after that. You could possibly conclude that sexual identity politics are improved by constant expletives, maybe, but Someone-from-Somewhere just nods, a little nervously and retreats to the bar. Feuilly steals his chair and props his elbow in the table, holding his head up with his fist, still smoking. If he gets nothing else out of tonight, he _will_ have this cigarette.

“So,” he begins.

“So.”

“Is this–” Bahorel cuts him off. The scar cutting across one eyebrow is pulled tight as he raises them quizzically.

“Look, does it really have to get fucking complicated? I like you, you don’t suck, I don’t even want to break your nose most of the time, and honestly, who gives a fuck about the rest?”

Smoke hisses out slowly from between Feuilly’s lips.

“ _Most_ of the time?”

Bahorel flashes him a shit-eating grin.

“I will gut you in the night, I swear to God.”

Bahorel likes redheads. Feuilly likes brown eyes. Neither of them really give a fuck about the rest.


End file.
